


Happy Birthday, Dear Alistair

by AimeeApproves



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Celebrations, Feels, Gen, More Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5781595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimeeApproves/pseuds/AimeeApproves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's King Alistair's 30th birthday and Ferelden is in full celebration mode. Now in day three, the revelry is starting to wear on the exhausted king. So he and his close friend Arl Teagan of Redcliffe have sequestered themselves in the King's chamber for some much-needed recovery – and some goddamned peace and quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Dear Alistair

One thing you can say about a Fereldan party is that no one leaves hungry. 

Even the most standard of celebrations involves trestle upon trestle of food – each dish simply prepared, but no less delectable than the fare found at the swankiest Orlesian fetes. Barrel after barrel of hearty ales hued pale amber to rich chocolate. Bottles of sweet white and robust red wines coming from every corner of Thedas. And sinfully heady concoctions made from – if not the finest, then the strongest – spirits in Ferelden.

You eat and dance. Chat and drink. Eat until you’re full. Sing until you’re hoarse. Laugh until you cry. Drink until you fall. You celebrate the day assuming there will be no more.

One thing you can say about a _really good_ Fereldan party is that no one leaves.

The next day, you’ll find satiated gentlemen packed into every nook and corner and spent ladies set like matches in the guest beds, each sleeping off their overindulgences as the servants quietly scurry about their duties with the shades tightly drawn. Over the course of the day, guests will wake, freshen up as much as a night spent on a floor will allow, and whisper their thank-yous, apologies, and I-can’t-believe-I-did-thats through the host’s closed chamber door before leaving or not leaving, should another party arise.

It was the third day of such a party and, much to the host’s chagrin, it showed few signs of slowing.

Alistair was Fereldan through and though, but that didn’t mean he didn’t find his kinsmen’s enthusiastic revelry thoroughly exhausting. But a king only turns 30 once, and, not knowing how many more milestones he’d reach, he reluctantly agreed to the affair.

“Maker’s breath,” grumbled Alistair between sips of coffee. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Teagan. At this rate, I’ll be nearing 40 before I get some peace and quiet.”

“Shall we take bets,” replied his disheveled companion. “Which will come first: a good night’s rest or the next blight.”

Though nearing 60, the Arl still cut an imposing figure – _usually_. After three days, 42 toasts, two proper meals, and nine-sum hours of sleep, he was as wan and withered as a trampled cabbage. 

Not that Alistair fared much better, mind you. He did his best to keep up with his guests, but quickly learned there’s no such thing as “keeping up” only not ending up dead or wishing you were dead. Unfortunately, he fell in the latter category this afternoon.

“Can I burn it down?” he asked in a half-serious tone. “The palace? That’ll get them out. Or what about an inconvenient nug infestation? Though, I suppose that’ll just make the dwarves stay longer.”

“You could always just tell them all to leave?” said Teagan with a shrug.

“And admit defeat?” he said with all due incredulity. “Never!”

“I can see it now: ‘Here lies Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden. Died of stubbornness while dancing the Remigold.’ What a way to go.”

The men laughed – and winced – signaling their return to silent recuperation.

After some time, the tiniest knocks came from the chamber door.

With a half smile, Teagan sighed, “Ah, your adoring guests await their dear King’s return to– I don’t know. Something. Maker’s breath. Make that noise stop.”

Slowly, Alistair rose from his seat and hobbled toward the door. Shooting his confidante a cheesy, probably-drunk smile, he cooed, “Yeeeeeeees?”

“Oh. Hello? Your Highness,” came a small, delicate voice from the other side of the door. “It’s me.”

“Hello, ‘Me’. I’m Alistair,” said the king, opening the door revealing a comely girl not much older than 20, pale and willowy, her face screwed in look of confusion that bordered on pain.

“I– No, my name isn’t ‘Me.’ It’s Edie,” tittered a small, nervous young woman. “You– I– We danced last night. Together. Remember?”

Alistair did not remember. There was a lot of ale. And a lot of dances. At one point, he even took a Mabari as a partner. But, not one to disappoint, he sputtered, “Oh! Of course! The fair and radiant Evie–“ 

“Edie,” she corrected. 

“Edie! I’m terribly sorry. What can I do for you, my dear?” he said with as charming a smile as a half-drunk sovereign could hope muster.

“I– Well, I was wondering–“ she said, a blush creeping up her face. “I mean, hoping – that I could see you again? In private?”

“Ah–“ said Alistair, comprehending the reason for her visit.

“I’m a lady, you know. My father is a Bann. With five brothers, all grown. Don’t let my small size fool you, I come from hardy stock. All Fereldan, so it’s not–“ she stuttered through.

“Dear–“ he softly interrupted. “Edie. I’m sorry if my behavior was misleading, but I assure you that I¬–“

It was too late. The girl had turned and bolted. The echoes of wailing and footfall ricocheted down the hall. 

He hated that part. Every lady and pretty girl in Thedas had been paraded past him at one time or another, elbowed by hopeful custodians into sheepish smiles and batting eyelashes.

It was painful.

“She wasn’t half bad,” remarked Teagan. “Maybe a little nervy, but it took guts to come up here.”

“You know I can’t,” replied Alistair with exhaustion.

“That’s the thing, Alistair. You can. And you probably should. It’s about time to start thinking about your legacy. You think you can pluck an heir out of thin air – Ooo! That was a good one, don’t you think?”

“I know where babies come from – like I’d ever get Wynne’s voice out of my head after that conversation – but I just can’t.”

“And why not? You’re not ill-equipped?” said Teagan, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Of course I’m not ill-equipped. I assure you, everything is in working order. Why do you think I insist upon washing my own handkerchiefs and pray for Andraste’s forgiveness every Sunday? I just– I can’t see myself with another woman. Not ever again. Not after–”

They grew quiet.

“You know they talk,” said Teagan, breaking the silence. “They call her ‘The Shadow Queen.’ Some even claim she’s has you bewitched.”

“Bewitched?” said Alistair, dubiously. “She wasn’t even a mage!”

“They don’t know that. Hell, I don’t think they even know who she is, let alone what she is. All they know is their king – who, I might add, has made a surprisingly good ruler – is unmarried and without an heir all because of this – dark, woman-shaped cloud that’s hanging over him.”  
“That’s not fair!” he shouted. “I love her. I still love her. You can’t honestly expect me to just move on.”

“No, Alistair. What’s not fair is that these people – your people – have spent the last decade clawing their way out of chaos and want some goddamned stability!”

“I have given them everything, Teagan. Everything. Every last inch of myself. I gave them my life as a Grey Warden. My freedom as their king. I even gave them my–“ he cracked. “I even gave them her. My Amelia. The only reason they have anything to rebuild is because of her sacrifice. So let them talk about a ‘Shadow Queen’ if it pleases them. Just let them be satisfied. Please.”

Another knock came from the door, snapping the tension.

“Your Highness,” came a deep, muffled voice from the other side. “The cooks want to know you want to serve your guests tonight.”

He stood staring at a painting hung over his mantle. A young woman, finely dressed in the colors of House Cousland, wore a playful smile and clever look in her eye. She seemed so confident, so sure of her position. Not once suspecting how dramatically different her life would be in a year’s time – and how she would have life at all in less than a year after that. 

“Sir–“ began the messenger.

“Nothing,” he quietly said, after a deep pause. “I have nothing left. So I will serve no one. The party is over.”


End file.
